


Face of the Enemy

by Clocketpatch



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Bodyswap, Guilt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocketpatch/pseuds/Clocketpatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake always believed in Avon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face of the Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally published in the zine ['Pride and Prejudice'](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pride_and_Prejudice_%28Blake%27s_7_zine%29) (ed. Aralias, 2015). You can read other fics from this zine by searching [the collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/PrideandPrejudice). You can also purchase your very own copy of the zine by contacting the publisher.

The southern continent of Terox Minor:

   
An undulating expanse of waist-high pale grass, and scattered gatherings of whimsical, purple umbrella-trees tucked unexpectedly in the shadows of fantastically shaped rock formations.  
   
Blake scrambled to the top of a long hill and wiped sweat from his eyes with the edge of an oversized sleeve. The planet was beautiful, but he couldn't allow himself the luxury of contemplating the landscape. The sun was dipping lower with each passing minute, and he had yet to find any trace of the scientists who had hailed the Liberator seeking aid.  
   
"Anything, Jenna?" Blake asked into his bracelet, aware of the desperation creeping into his voice.  
   
"Nothing," she replied. Blake squinted in her direction. Jenna, Gan and Cally stood on a ridge far enough away to be barely recognisable as anything but as humanoid smudges. Still, Blake thought he could detect the disappointed shrug of Jenna's shoulders. They'd spent hours searching. The thought of failing was almost unimaginably horrific.  
   
Once the sun slipped past the horizon the amusingly shaped umbrella trees would reveal their true nature as deadly biobombs. Every evening at dusk the trees off-gassed a deadly neurotoxin. That was the deadline they were working against.  
   
Avon, clad in his red leather surface-suit, appeared from behind a tumbled pile of boulders at Blake's right. He looked irate and wasted no time informing Blake of his opinion of their search and rescue operation:  
   
"So far we have found no wreckage, no distress beacons, no signs of life. In short, we have found no indication your scientists friends managed to outrun their pursuers and make it to this planet at all."  
   
"Your point?" Blake asked.  
   
Avon smiled. "Only that the atmosphere here is about to become decidedly unhealthy."  
   
"Zen and Orac have found nothing to indicate their ship was destroyed or deviated from the course they gave us," Blake said.  
   
"An absence of information is not a proof," Avon said.  
   
"As you say," Blake said. "Until we find proof that Dr. Kamsfield and her assistants are not here, I will continue looking."  
   
"There is persistence and there is futility," Avon said.  
   
Blake walked away, downhill and to the East. The terrain over there didn't look more promising than any other direction, but it was away from Avon and it kept the sun out of his eyes.  
   
The scientists had to be around somewhere. They had escaped unlawful incarceration at a Federation research station in a retro-fitted planet hopper. Not a terribly sturdy craft, but fast. Dr. Kamsfield had sent the Liberator specific coordinates for this location on Terox Minor before switching off the ship's communications channels in fear of Federation eavesdroppers. Orac's scans of Federation sub-space frequencies showed the scientists had evaded capture or destruction.  
   
Dr. Kamsfield had put her faith in Blake. Her people had only risked escape because of their belief in the Liberator. Blake had a duty to keep searching for them. Their lives were his responsibility. Couldn't Avon understand that?  
   
He did, Blake knew, and didn't care.  
   
Or pretended not to care.  
   
Avon was cold and logical, but he did not relish failure. He could have returned to the Liberator at any time over the past several hours, but had remained on the surface to search, despite his misgivings. Just as he had stayed with Blake and the Liberator for over a year despite his daily threats to leave. It wasn't that he didn't have the opportunity to go, Blake had reasoned a long time ago; it was that he couldn't admit he wanted to stay.  
   
Underneath the shield of emotional indifference and brutal reason, Blake was certain Avon was just as much an idealist as himself, but a lifetime under the Federation's thumb had left him with the mistaken belief that hope was weakness. Blake knew otherwise. Avon was one of the most intelligent, courageous, resourceful men he'd ever met, and Blake was certain he stayed because, even if the odds and the evidence were against it, Avon hoped they would succeed.  
   
Even now, Blake could hear the crunch of Avon's footsteps as he followed him down the slope. Still searching.  
   
"There was a research station set up on Terox Minor to study the trees a few decades ago," Blake said. "It was sealed, but if Dr. Kamsfield's people managed to find one of the entrances——”  
   
"Then they would be in a safe environment, ready and waiting for you to resume your search later, without the impending threat of toxic gases," Avon said.  
   
"We have no idea what condition the ventilation systems would be in after all this time, and no reason to believe they would be any safer than on the surface."  
   
Avon opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Vila giving a status report from the Liberator _._  
   
"I don't mean to sound worried, but you're cutting it a bit fine, aren't you? Zen says those trees could go off any minute, and I don't want any of that gas coming with you when you teleport back."  
   
"Your concern is noted," Blake said.  
   
"Indeed," Avon added, raising his own bracelet to his mouth. "And, unlike some, I am not suicidal. Vila, teleport."  
   
"No, wait!" Blake said. "Vila, cancel that command!"  
   
"What are you doing?" Avon growled.  
   
Blake held up a finger for quiet, scanning the terrain ahead of them. He'd heard something rustling in the grass. On another planet it might have been just an animal, but the threat of the trees meant that Terox Minor had no native animal life. Which meant …  
   
"There!" Blake shouted, stabbing his finger in the direction of the noise. He felt a surge of relief. Their search hadn't been in vain.  
   
"Hullo! Friend!" he shouted, stepping forward. There was no answer, but Blake heard the soft crunch of more footsteps, a pause, more rustling.  
   
"Hopefully they are," said Avon, drawing his weapon.  
   
"Dr. Kamsfield?" Blake asked.  
   
A figure stepped out of the grass. It was clad in shiny pseudo-leather and stunk of blood and chemicals. It had a peculiar stretched-back helmet and an almost-human face.  
   
"Evidently not," said Avon, firing at the approaching mutoid. It fell. Avon turned to Blake, as if to say something, but stopped at the sound of more mutoids approaching. Avon whirled, weapon held ready. Blake hesitated between drawing his own and using his bracelet to call for help.  
   
That hesitation was very nearly his downfall. The mutoids appeared so quickly out of the grass they must have been watching Blake and Avon for some time before making themselves known. They were surrounded.  
   
"Teleport, Vila!" Blake yelled into his wrist, choosing retreat over what even he could see was an inevitable defeat. "Now!"  
   
The teleport field started to form. Blake heard the close discharge of a Federation energy weapon. He felt the air heat up as the blast rushed by, not hitting him. Another mutoid appeared out of the grass, weapon levelled and ready to fire. Blake could see the inhuman finger clenched on the trigger. He heard the click of it being pulled back. Then, in a rapid flash of events, Avon was on top of him, pushing him out of the way. There was a terrible sizzling smell. Then Blake was in the teleport room onboard the Liberator.  
   
Gan, Jenna and Cally were hunched beside him in various defensive poses. Evidently they had been attacked as well.  
   
"What happened?" Vila asked. "Where's Avon? You didn't abandon him, did you?"  
   
"No, I did not," Blake said, storming towards the teleport console. The signal for Avon's bracelet was still coming through, but when Blake hit the switch to bring him up nothing happened. He spoke into his own bracelet. "Avon, are you there? Avon, do you read me?"  
   
Nothing.  
   
"His bracelet must have been damaged in the fight," said Blake, grabbing another one from the rack. "I'll go back down and bring him up."  
   
"What fight?" Vila asked. "Blake, it's nearly dusk down there!"  
   
Blake stepped back onto the teleport pad. "Jenna, Cally, are you with me?"  
   
Cally looked incredulous at the question. "I am not afraid."  
   
"Let's make it quick," Jenna said.  
             
Blake turned towards Gan to tell him it would be all right if he stayed onboard. Gan's pained face told Blake the big man's limiter must have been activated before Vila's teleport.  
   
"I'm sorry," Gan said. Blake could see he was distressed by not being able to help and wanted to comfort him, but there wasn't time. Avon was in danger and they had to act fast.  
   
"This is insane!" Vila said.  
   
" _Now_ ," Blake commanded, focusing himself for the fight. The desperation of the failed search and the adrenaline from the mutoid ambush had come together into a hard, throbbing headache. The scientists were in danger because of him. Avon was in danger because of him. Blake gripped his weapon as the teleport activated.  
   
It had been only a matter of minutes, but the surface of Terox Minor already felt more foreboding. The sun wasn't completely set, but the quality of light had changed. It was dimmer, and there was a thin purple fog clinging close to the ground and streaming silently around the bases of the rock towers. Instead of grass and dirt, the air smelled like burnt sugar and metal. Sweetness and blood. Not entirely unpleasant, but also entirely too easy to breathe in.  
   
Blake crashed forward through the grass, weapon held high and ready to shoot. The mutoids – with the exception of a corpse Blake stumbled over, nearly falling into the deadly fog – were gone. So was Avon.  
   
"Avon!" Blake shouted. He ran. Pushing. Scrambling. Shouting. Scanning. "Avon!"  
   
Jenna and Cally fanned out behind him. Blake could hear their calls. Their voices were harsh, rasping. Dimly, Blake was aware his that throat hurt too; that the light was nearly gone; that his feet and hands had gone numb; that he was stumbling more and more often.  
   
"Blake, we have to leave!" Jenna gasped.  
   
He continued forward, resolute, tripping again, falling –  
   
Someone caught him. Strong hands around his shoulders keeping him out of the rising tide of poison. Jenna. Cally. Blake didn't know and didn't care. He fought them off and dropped to his knees. He pressed his hands through the swirling fog to feel at the ground, gripped the crumbling dirt between his fingers.  
   
He dug, half crazed, hoping to find an entrance to the abandoned station he only half believed in, afraid of finding a body. Jenna and Cally were hollering something somewhere far off.  
   
Blake felt the teleport field forming again. He tried to rip off his bracelet, to yell at Vila to give him just a little bit more time, but the poison was around him and his body refused to respond. He felt himself crumpling and falling the remaining short, endless distance towards the ground …  
   
He woke in the Liberator's medical bay.  
   
He was reclined on one of the treatment beds with an oxygen mask positioned on his face. Blake pulled it off and sat up – slowly. He felt muddled. Dizzy. The stench of the tree gas clung to his clothes.  
   
Cally and Jenna were sitting on adjacent beds. Both appeared exhausted. Jenna had one hand pressed against her forehead. Blake could sympathise. His head was pounding too.  
   
“Avon?" Blake asked. His throat felt raw.  
   
Cally and Jenna looked at each other. Blake could tell that Cally was mind speaking, probably wondering if he was medically fit to receive their bad news.  
   
"You did everything you could," Jenna said.  
   
"The results say otherwise," Blake said. He swung his legs around and stood up, bracing himself against the side of the bed. "I have to go back down. The mutoids were hiding somewhere. Probably the abandoned research station. Avon could be there too."  
   
"It will be at least five hours before the gas clears," Cally said.  
   
"I'll use respiratory equipment," Blake said. He strode purposefully towards the door. Or tried to. His legs didn't seem to be working properly and he found himself grabbing at a bank of medical equipment in order to stay upright.  
   
"You will be dizzy and disorientated," Cally said. "Jenna and I felt the same. It will pass, but not quickly."  
   
"He could be dying down there!" Blake said, trying again for the door, and instead almost falling into Cally's bed.  
   
"Blake! Calm down!" Jenna said.  
   
"How _can_ I calm down?"  
   
Cally rested her hand on his arm and spoke to him mind-to-mind. _There is a saying among my people: 'The one who would rescue is often more at risk than the one he would save.' If Avon is alive then we must hope he is in a safe place._  
   
Her touch was reassuring. Blake felt himself relax slightly. He'd lost Cally once, and got her back. The same would happen this time. He ruefully considered Cally's words.  
   
"Avon said something similar about the scientists."  
   
She stared at him intensely. "Avon is very clever. Trust him."  
   
   
***  
   
   
For five hours, Blake tried to take comfort from Cally's words, even when it became obvious the others thought it was a lost cause. The presence of the mutoids had the crew spooked. The only reason they hadn't left yet was because their pilot had been temporarily disabled by the gas, but as the effects wore off, Jenna voiced her opinion:  
   
Avon was almost certainly dead and they should get as far away from Terox Minor as possible.  
   
Blake gathered the crew on the flight deck to try and reason with them. It was likely the mutoids had been abandoned at the same time as the research station. Their kind didn't age, after all. They were living dead. Vampires. They might be rogue. That _did_ happen. In which case it was extremely unlikely they would contact the Federation about the Liberator's presence.  
   
It was not an especially convincing argument.  
   
"Avon would do it," Vila said. "If you were down there, and he were up here with pursuit ships bearing down. He'd go without a second thought."  
   
"Would he?" Blake asked, gently, trying to rely on his crew's better nature.  
   
"Yes," Jenna said, flatly, and then started to relate how Avon had been in favour of abandoning Blake, Gan, and Vila to the tender mercies of Cygnus Alpha.  
   
Which had been a long time ago, when they'd all barely known each other, and he _hadn't_  done it, but never mind that, Blake thought, not when it makes such a convincing, conscience-soothing argument. Damn Avon. Blake wanted to offer a better defence. He believed Avon would do the right thing, but couldn't think of a way to prove it, not when Avon spent so much of his time building up his façade of being a self-serving, untrustworthy, bastard.  
   
"It's immaterial anyway," Blake said, raising his voice over Jenna's, "because so far there _are_ no pursuit ships."  
   
"But they _are_ likely," Jenna said, locking eyes with Blake.  
   
It was a battle of wills: his versus the crew's. Blake didn't want to impose his will on anyone. The ship was a democracy. But he couldn't let them just abandon Avon.  
   
"I don't like it any more than you do, Blake,” Gan said, "but I'm with Jenna on this. I don't like sitting and waiting."  
   
Blake turned to Cally for support. "You agreed he might still be alive."  
   
The Auronar woman had been a member of his crew for nearly a year, and Blake generally understood her. They shared common goals, after all. They both loved freedom and hated the Federation. He knew she shared a close friendship with Avon.  
   
"I believe in the possibility," she said, "but I also face the probability."  
   
"That he's dead," Blake said. "That’s what you're using to justify your cowardice. We've been in orbit for nearly fifteen hours without any sign of Federation ships on the long-range scanners, but you're all unwilling to risk a few more hours to save Avon's life. Instead, you'd rather pretend our hands are tied and not even _try._ "  
   
Blake stopped, out of breath, and looked at his crew. They seemed cowed at his speech, as they should. Blake felt disgusted by what he'd just witnessed. If Avon were there, Blake knew, he'd grin and ask Blake why he was so surprised. He'd probably be flattered by their lack of trust.  
   
"A few more hours then," Jenna agreed. "But if any Federation ships come up on the scanner –"  
   
"Then we pull out," Blake finished for her. "That Avon _would_ understand."  
   
Time passed in a restless haze. Blake knew he should eat something, rest, pretend to be calm. Even with his diplomacy on the bridge, the crew was still jumpy. Watching him pace like a caged animal was, Cally pointed out, not helping the situation.  
   
Blake decided to wait in his room, but somehow he got turned around in the corridors and ended up outside Avon's cabin instead. He let himself in without thinking.  
   
The room did not look lived in. The other members of the crew, Blake knew, had taken various trinkets and other items from the Liberator's treasure room to liven up their living quarters. Vila's room was a variable magpie's nest of shiny bits and pieces. Jenna had a selection of tapestries adorning her walls. Cally had a small brass bird. Gan had a collection of educational tapes and vizgames.  
   
Aside from the sleeping ledge and a small desk with a few half-completed circuits on its worktop, Avon's cabin was bare. No decorations. No mementos. Not even a blanket. Avon didn't need one. He had hacked Zen's climate controls to raise the temperature in his cabin after Cally had told him the extra warmth might help his back spasms.  
   
Blake sat on the edge of Avon's sleeping ledge. It wasn't so different from Blake's own quarters, but then, Blake didn't spend much time in his cabin. He rarely slept there, generally falling asleep on various chairs and flat surfaces around the ship as he worked himself to exhaustion. The whole of the Liberator was Blake's bedroom.  
   
By contrast, Avon spent hours and hours in this barren cell tinkering with his machines and presumably sleeping on the hard ledge Blake sat on.  
   
Blake thought a more comfortable mattress would probably do more for Avon's back than any amount of re-programming the ship's computer, and resolved to mention it to him as soon as they got him back.  
   
Of course, Avon would probably take that as an excuse to launch into a diatribe on how, if Blake were _really_ worried about his health, he would give up his pointless campaign against the Federation.  
   
He did have a point. Avon's current danger was Blake's fault. If Blake were really concerned about the physical safety of his crew, and of Avon particularly-–  
   
But that was a false argument, Blake told himself. None of them would ever be truly safe until the Federation was destroyed. They might run. They might hide. But the Federation would find them sooner or later. Even if they capitulated, surrendered themselves and were somehow forgiven to live out their lives as re-incorporated citizens, they would not be safe and they would not be free. Because safety and freedom did not exist under the Federation!  
   
Blake's voice echoed back at him off of the blank walls of Avon's cabin, startling him. When had his quiet moment of contemplation transformed into him shouting and pacing around Avon's room?  
   
If Avon were there, he would make a comment about Blake's sanity, or lack thereof. Then Blake would tell Avon it was better to have feelings, even mad ones, than to be an automaton slave to the Federation's whims. They would throw insults and arguments back and forth for hours, and by the end of it Blake would feel refreshed. His goals would be clearer. His strength and will would be renewed.  
   
Arguing with Avon was better than any of Cally's meditation sessions.  
   
It was what Blake needed and longed for, because he wasn't certain he had the strength for what he knew he had to do.  
   
Blake left Avon's cabin and made his way back to the teleport room. It was empty, which was fine. For the next few moments, he needed to be alone. Orac sat on a small table next to the teleport console. Blake had avoided consulting the machine so far. He wasn't afraid of its predictions, he'd rationalised. It was just that the predictions Orac made very rarely turned out the way one would expect, to the point where they were, from a practical view point, generally useless.  
   
And, of course, Blake _knew_ they would find Avon. Because Avon could not die. The man was a survivor, and Blake was convinced even if the Federation _did_ win, even if all the rest of them were killed or captured and brainwashed into being puppets, Avon would still survive, somehow. The last man standing.  
   
It was so very obvious.  
   
But … if he was wrong …  
   
Could he force the others to stay in danger just so he could get a sense of closure?  
   
Blake put in Orac's key.  
   
"What do you want?" it asked, buzzing angrily.  
   
"Avon is missing," Blake said.  
   
"If you are only going to state the obvious could you do so elsewhere? I have more important things to attend to."  
   
"We believe he may be alive in an abandoned research base beneath the planet's surface."  
   
"If he is alive, that is the only logical place he would be."  
   
"Zen was unable to find such a base during his initial scans of the planet."  
   
"Then, the logical answer is that Avon is dead. Please stop distracting me."  
   
That was it then. He was being irrational, and keeping the others in danger for no reason. Blake took a deep breath. The right thing to do would be to gather the crew again and admit his mistake. They'd fly away. He'd mourn. He'd feel guilt. Then, years would pass and the guilt would dull. Life would continue.  
   
Blake clenched his fists. It was the same seductive escape the rest of the crew were so willing to buy into, but Blake refused to give up so easily. Even if he could imagine Avon lambasting him for how unreasonable he was being.  
   
Orac was a contrite machine, Blake told himself. It answered questions accurately, but they had to be the correct questions. So he would keep asking questions until he got an answer he liked.  
   
"Can _you_ detect any such base?"  
   
Orac whirled and beeped for a long interval.  
   
"Well?" Blake tapped impatiently at the machine's casing.  
   
"There are tunnels," Orac said. "I hope you are satisfied by these results, as obtaining them forced me to concentrate resources away from my own research for nearly a full minute."  
   
"Yes, I’m satisfied," Blake said. An understatement. He'd been dreading more confirmation of Avon's demise. He hadn't prepared himself for hope. Blake gripped the computer's casing with both hands to steady himself. "Orac, tell me about these tunnels."  
   
"They are well shielded against both conventional scanning technology and teleport. I am not surprised you did not find them while on the surface. _I_ was only able to find them by accessing the tarriel network of Dr. Kamsfield's research databanks." The computer sounded almost smug about its accomplishment.  
   
"Can you upload a map of the system to the ship's computers for me to analyse?" Blake asked.  
   
"If you insist. I do hope this will be your last request for some duration. I have more important things to attend to than your petty concerns."  
   
"One more thing," Blake said.  
   
" _Yes?_ "  
   
He swallowed hard, readying himself. "Do you think Avon is alive?"  
   
"If he is on the surface the probability of Avon's survival is less than zero point zero-zero-two per cent."  
   
"And if he were brought into the tunnel system?"  
   
"The base is a former scientific outpost with advanced medical facilities able to treat gas exposure."  
   
"That's not a clear answer. Is he, or isn't he, Orac? I need to know." Blake pressed his eyes shut as the machine beeped and buzzed under his hands. "I need to know," he repeated.  
   
"I heard you the first time," Orac snapped. "I cannot give you an accurate prediction with currently available data. There are too many variables. The base has been extensively repurposed as a mutoid conversion-facility and I cannot gain access to all areas. If Avon is identified as a member of the Liberator crew there is a high probability he will be kept alive for the information he might provide."  
   
The dark-red blankness behind Blake's closed eyelids was replaced by a mental image of Avon screaming under a Federation interrogation-device. Blake opened his eyes, trying to will the thought away.  
   
"The base is still active," he said.  
   
"As I stated. Your continued desire for repetition is illogical."  
   
 "As a mutoid conversation-facility,” Blake continued, shuddering at the thought of the hell they'd been walking over on the surface, oblivious; a hell which Avon was now trapped in. "How often does the Federation send in supply ships?"  
   
"You specified that you had _one_ more question," Orac said, sounding cross.  
   
"I apologise," said Blake. "But I need to know how much danger we’ll be in if we maintain our current orbit."  
   
"It is irrelevant," Orac said.  
   
"For what reason?"  
   
"I can predict with ninety-eight per cent certainty you will not alter orbit, regardless of risk."  
   
Blake swallowed hard.  "Thank you, Orac, that is all."  
   
"Your gratitude is unnecessary, but acknowledged."  
   
   
***  
   
   
The maps revealed a maze of underground tunnels crisscrossing the grasslands they had spent so many hours searching the previous day. There were several concealed entrances, including one very close to where Avon had disappeared. That was where they would look.  
   
"They would be fools not to recognise the Liberator above their heads," Cally said.  
   
"Who's to say they haven't?" asked Vila. "I say we leave."  
   
The whole crew was crowded into the teleport room again. Blake had brought them there to see the maps and to hear Orac's prediction of Avon's survival before they departed for the surface. He had also forced the machine to admit that the base was not due a new supply ship for several weeks. Nor had it sent out any sub-space messages asking for aid.  
   
Jenna gnawed her lip. "If the base is still operational, even in a different function, and Dr. Kamsfield was aware of this …"  
   
"Then the entire rescue operation may have been a set-up," Blake finished for her. "Yes, I did think of that."  
   
"A set-up we’re walking back into," Vila said, his voice high-pitched with concern.  
   
"With eyes open this time," Blake said. Jenna and Cally exchanged a look which said they thought otherwise.  
   
"If it was a set-up," Vila asked, "why did it take so long for you to be attacked? You were on the surface for hours before those mutoids popped out."  
   
"Good question," said Blake, stroking his chin, "and one I have a theory for. I believe the mutoids were waiting for us to separate. Searching individually, we would have covered more ground. We would also have been easier to pick off. When they overheard we were returning to the Liberator they stopped waiting and attacked before they lost their chance."  
   
"Sounds reasonable," Gan said.  
   
"Well, no sense standing around waiting," said Blake, before anyone else could raise argument. "The gas will have cleared by now, and Avon will be getting testy waiting for us."  
   
"One of the many reasons I'm glad to be staying behind," said Vila, taking his position at the teleport. Gan stood beside him, opting to stay behind in case of a second ambush.  
   
Blake, Cally, and Jenna stepped into the teleport and dissolved.  
   
   
***  
   
   
Early in the morning, the rolling fields of Terox Minor were pleasantly cool. The light from the rising sun gave the grass a nice auburn tone. The air still stank of tree gas.  
   
Blake picked his way towards the hidden entrance. Cally and Jenna walked alongside him, scanning for movement.  
   
"I hear something," Jenna said, turning sideways. Blake rested his palm against his weapon and followed her. There was more movement. A male mutoid was crouched over a body in a trampled down clearing. Not any body – _Avon_.  
   
Blake fired instinctively, then pressed forward, pushing the fallen mutoid away from Avon, noticing the unhooked feeding tube.  
   
If they had been a moment later …  
   
"He's alive," Jenna said, kneeling to assess the damage. Avon was bruised, bloodied, and covered with dirt and dried grass. His left wrist was cradled protectively against his chest.  
   
Blake quickly snapped a spare bracelet onto his right hand, doing his best not to hurt him more. Avon didn't stir.  
   
"Wait," said Cally, emerging from the grass behind him.  
   
"Another ambush?" Blake asked. The base was very close, and he was expecting it. If the base was aware of their presence and hadn't acted, then what were they waiting for?  
   
"No." Cally seemed confused. She nodded towards Avon. "There is something about _him_. Some danger."  
   
"What danger?" Blake asked.  
   
"It is as if –" Cally shook her head, "No, it is probably only a side effect of the gas."  
   
Blake looked at her queerly. Then spoke into his bracelet: "We found him, Vila. Teleport."  
   
   
***  
   
   
Cally handed Blake a small, metal capsule. He took it gingerly.  
   
"I deactivated it," she said, missing the reason for his discomfort.  
   
Avon was laid out on a recovery bed beside them – the same one Blake had occupied five hours previous. He was still unconscious. Other than his arm, which had been badly burned near the wrist, he seemed surprisingly unharmed. Cally had bandaged his wound. Then she'd scanned him.  
   
Blake's fingers closed around the capsule. A tiny bomb containing enough umbrella-tree toxin to kill everyone onboard the Liberator. A tiny bomb that Cally had found implanted in Avon's back, positioned in such a way that its detonation it would paralyse, but not immediately kill him. No, Avon would have lived just long enough to choke to death with the rest of them.  
   
The Federation would pay for this.  
   
"The Avalon trick, with Avon for bait. They must think we're idiots." Blake carefully set the bomb down on an empty bed.  
   
"We may still be," Cally said. "He was down there a long time."  
   
Blake looked up sharply. "Meaning?"  
   
"His EEG readings are very erratic, and ..." She paused. "It is difficult to explain to a non-Auronar. He does not _feel_ like Avon to me. More like an Avon-shell surrounding something else."  
   
"You think he may have been interrogated and re-programmed," Blake said. He looked down at Avon again, trying to imagine it. Sleeping, Avon looked younger and less world-weary; all of the hard cynicism he clothed himself in when awake stripped away, the fine lines by his eyes relaxed, his mouth resting in a smile that wasn't meant as a weapon. He looked peaceful, but also painfully vulnerable.  
   
Blake found himself reaching down to stroke Avon's ruffled hair back into place.  
   
"It is not beyond the realm of possibility," Cally said. She hesitated. "We also do not know how long he was exposed to the tree toxin for. There may be irreversible damage. Memory loss, personality change, motor difficulties … He would still look like Avon; he would, on some level, still _be_ Avon, but not the Avon you remember."  
   
"Are those the choices?" Blake asked, "Avon the enemy or …" Blake couldn't bring himself to say 'brain-damaged'.  
   
"Or he may be fine," Cally said, brusquely. "But you need to prepare yourself, and until we know, he must be watched."  
   
"Must I?" asked a dry and creaking voice. Petulant. Sardonic. Avon.  
   
"You're awake!" said Blake, feeling suddenly giddy. Awake and talking. Cally had her hand on her weapon. Blake tried to ignore her.  
   
"Yes," said Avon. He sat up slowly, using his injured arm to push himself up. "Blake. Cally. It is good to see you. Cally.”  
   
Avon stared at Cally for an uncomfortable fraction too long, smiling strangely, before turning his gaze to Blake.  
   
Blake swallowed at its intensity. "Do you remember anything?" he asked.  
   
Avon slowly looked away. "My head hurts," he said, monotone. Blake wondered if that was his way of being cross about being left behind. Not that it had been Blake's fault. Or Cally's fault.  
   
Or anyone's fault, Blake realised, other than Avon's for acting as a human shield and quite probably saving his life.  
   
He knew he should probably express gratitude, but that would involve having to meet Avon's eyes again, and Blake wasn't certain he could manage that at the moment. He was too tired. Too likely to lose control. Too afraid he would look, and see something not-Avon looking back at him.  
   
Instead, Blake continued his interrogation: "Did you see the scientists? Are they still alive? How did you survive?"  
   
Avon waved his hands to cut off his words. "I don't know what you're talking about. I want to go to my room."  
   
Avon stood up. Or rather, he tried to stand up. His legs immediately buckled and he would have ended up sprawled across the floor if Cally hadn't steadied him. Avon growled and shoved her away.  
   
"Unhand me, bitch."  
   
Cally did so immediately. Avon staggered, but caught himself on the bedside, his body a long line of tension, his eyes fixed downwards.  
   
"I apologise," he said, slowly, slurring the long word. "For a moment I was … confused."  
   
"It would be better if you stayed here," Cally said, with measured calm. "The equipment is already set up to monitor you."  
   
"No." Avon pushed himself away from the bed. He swayed for a moment, but stood firm. "I will recover better alone."  
   
"Very well, but let me help you on the way," Cally said. "In case you again become … confused."  
   
Avon's jaw clenched as if enraged by the suggestion. "Fine," he said, allowing Cally to take his arm and steer him towards the door.  
   
Blake put on a fake smile and scratched at his curls in a way he hoped looked carefree and natural. "You have everything under control then?" he asked Cally.  
   
She didn't answer.  
   
Blake watched them leave. He absently chewed at his knuckles, considering. If Avon had been subjected to interrogation and re-programming, he could deal with that. Blake had thrown off his own conditioning. It would be difficult watching Avon go through those same struggles, but it would be doable.  
   
If Avon were fundamentally changed, however, if his sparkling wit and rare smile had been permanently replaced by an angry, stumbling ghost of his former self, would Blake be able to accept that? To see past the damage to the man Avon had been? To the man Avon might not even remember having been?  
   
Blake's hand hurt. He drew it away from his mouth and found he'd bitten the skin hard enough to draw blood.  
   
   
***I***I***  
   
   
Smell returned before awareness.  
   
Stale, recycled air that tasted vaguely of antiseptic and pacifying chemicals. The odd, yet familiar, plastic tang of Terran-made pseudo leather. Sweat. A whiff of decay and blood that signalled the near presence of at least one mutoid. A strange burnt-sugar-and-metal odour…  
   
Avon drifted for an unquantifiable duration: half awake, aware of the smells and then the sounds around him – distant footsteps, the clang of a ventilator system, the gurgle of a mutoid's feeding tube – but only in a vague, disconnected way. He was on a gurney at one point, being pushed along at great speed. Then he was on the floor. A light, floral perfume drifted over him. Something nudged him in the ribs. Boot, Avon thought, and smiled at his own cleverness for solving that mystery so quickly.  
   
"Are you having sweet dreams?" asked a voice. Female.  
   
_Servalan_.  
   
Avon jerked into startled consciousness at the realisation. He was in a cell. He was alone.  
   
The room had smooth, tiled floors and walls. Avon felt muzzy. Cold. His shirt and shoes were missing and the tile was chilly against his bare skin. The room seemed out of focus and flattened, the geometry of the tiles distorted somehow. Avon's head ached. He raised a hand to check for injuries. Or tried to –  
   
He remembered being shot in the arm. It hadn't been a serious wound, but it had hit his teleport bracelet, disabling it, and the blood loss had made him slow. He'd been separated and surrounded. Avon didn't remember much past that point, but the cell made it obvious enough he'd been captured.  
   
Less obvious was what had happened since. His left arm was _missing_. Not bandaged. Not strapped down. _Gone_. Nothing but a twisted stump terminating a few inches from the shoulder.  
   
Avon stared at it, disbelievingly. He'd been shot, but only a minor graze. His mind stuttered for a moment before grabbing onto an even more incongruent fact: the stump was an old wound. Years old, at least, judging by the fading on the scars and how serious the original injury must have been.  
   
Avon continued examining the wound, trying to deduce what the hell had happened to him. There was a peculiar pattern of callouses extending over the stump and across his chest. Except, it wasn't his chest. It was broad, heavily muscled, even more heavily scarred, and waxed smooth of any trace of hair. Avon patted himself down with his good, right hand. When he got to the face, he flinched.  
   
The left eye was also missing, replaced by a leathery-feeling implant. That explained the lack of depth perception. It didn't explain how he'd somehow woken up in a different body. A body that, unless he was very much mistaken, had until recently belonged to one Space Commander Travis.  
   
Avon tried to stand up, but his balance was off. He careened neatly into one not-very-clean tile wall before managing to get his – Travis's – feet under him.  
   
He took a few unsteady steps towards the door, and nearly fell against when it unexpectedly slid open. Avon stumbled out into a long, tiled corridor. There were doors on either side, but the door at the very end was cracked open just enough to give a whiff of fresh air and a glimpse of blue sky. Obviously a trap. But, predictably, all of the other doors were locked.  
   
By the time Avon reached the far end of the corridor he'd almost gotten used to the new gait required by this taller, more heavily muscled body. He kicked the door all the way open.  
   
The ridiculous scene outside didn't surprise him in the least: Servalan, wearing one of her more subdued ball gowns, sat at a small round table laid out for tea. A pair of mutoids stood guard at a respectful distance under one of the deadly umbrella trees.  
   
Servalan daintily put down the cup she'd been sipping at and patted the empty wicker seat next to her, beckoning Avon to join her.  
   
“Come, Travis, don't be shy."  
   
Avon considered his situation. The facility he'd walked out of was built into a low, grassy hill. So, Avon thought, Blake was right about his abandoned research station, though in practice it didn't appear to be as condemned as Blake had described. Briefly, Avon wondered how the Federation had managed to keep the tunnels shielded from Zen's scan, and if he could duplicate the effect on the Liberator. An interesting idea, but one to be quickly filed away for later. Assuming there would be a later.  
   
Aside from the door behind him, and a few scattered umbrella trees, the terrain was unforgivingly open. If he ran, the mutoids would catch him. If he sat down with Servalan … well … Avon really had no idea, though he wasn't entirely certain running wasn't still the better option.  
   
Servalan tapped her foot impatiently. "I don't like being kept waiting, Avon. Sit."  
   
Avon slide into the offered chair. "Am I Avon? I thought I was Travis.”  
   
Servalan examined him, her eyes lingering on his bare chest and missing arm. Avon could sense her disgust at the deformity. It amused him, and he wondered if it amused Travis also; if that was one of the reasons he refused more conventional prosthetics.  
   
"It's an interesting effect of the local toxin," Servalan said, "combined with a rather intricate piece of machinery designed by Dr. Kamsfield. You were an unexpected variable. Travis was rather hoping to capture and switch with Blake. He was disturbingly excited by the prospect."  
   
Avon picked up a biscuit from the table and toyed with it. It had bright-pink sugar frosting. The thought of Travis's eagerness to possess Blake's body didn't surprise Avon, but he _did_ find the thought of it disturbing. Somehow, more disturbing than the thought that, if he was understanding Servalan correctly, Travis was currently walking around in his skin.  
   
"I doubt Travis's subtle touch will go unnoticed for long," Avon said.  
   
Servalan tilted her head slightly. "I agree he perhaps wasn't the best choice, but he was so eager I couldn't find it in my heart to deny him. In any case, Travis's skills as an actor are irrelevant. He is onboard the Liberator. He is in your body. If his behaviour is judged irregular, he can blame it on lingering effects from the tree toxin." She smiled and nodded at the biscuit in Avon's hand. "Those are my favourite."  
   
Avon set the biscuit down. "What do you want, Servalan."  
   
"I want Blake. I want the Liberator. Both of which should be falling into my grasp shortly. The real question here, is what do _you_ want Avon." Her voice was soft and genuine, and gave a good impression of actually having Avon's best interests at heart.  
   
He wasn't fooled for a second.  
   
Academically, however, it was an interesting question. If he could state one wish and be given all the resources of the Federation behind him to achieve it, what would he ask for?  
   
_Blake_. Avon had a sudden, perfect mental image of Blake standing on the flight deck of the Liberator, laughing and happy and utterly ridiculous. No. That was what he was trying to escape. What he wanted was freedom. Security. Luxury. All of which added up to only one thing.  
   
Avon gave a dark smile. "To be fabulously wealthy."  
   
"That can be arranged," Servalan said.  
   
"I would also like to be returned to my proper body," Avon added.  
   
"You should know _that_ body will have to be executed, for appearance's sake. It would be a loss if you had to be in it at the time, but if that is your wish – " Servalan shrugged.  
   
"Wealth is very difficult to spend when you're dead," Avon said.  
   
"Astute reasoning," Servalan said.  
   
"What if Travis is still in my body when you 'keep up appearances?'"  
   
Servalan picked up Avon's discarded biscuit. "Travis is useful in some ways, but he is a very tedious companion. I believe your take on him will be more … entertaining."  
   
"And harder to control."  
   
"Do you think so?" Servalan asked. "I might find that entertaining in and of itself. I have been very bored waiting here for this trap to be sprung."  
   
"Get to the point," Avon said.  
   
"You are in Travis's body. You may deny being him, but Travis has several well-documented instabilities. I doubt anyone would believe you. And that means you will, in the near future, be attending a trial for your various war crimes. That trial could end with you being executed …"  
   
Servalan nibbled delicately at the pink-frosted biscuit.  
   
“… Or, it could end with you being commended for your actions. A promotion. And fabulous wealth, if that is the reward you choose."  
   
Carrot and stick, Avon thought. Though, knowing the Federation, the carrot was bound to be rotten.  
   
"What do you want in return?" Avon asked. "Other than my soul, obviously."  
   
"Obviously," Servalan agreed. "I would want you to help our engineers in understanding and replicating the Liberator's technology once it has been captured. Your records show you were a highly skilled computer-technician before falling in with Blake's rabble. Your expertise would be useful."  
   
"And difficult to explain."  
   
"As a Space Commander, Travis has been extensively trained on star-ship layouts and abilities. It is also well known Blake and Travis have a _special_ rapport. It would be very believable for Travis to act as a liaison between Blake and our scientists."  
   
"To interpret the screams, you mean," Avon said, doing his best to keep his tone emotionless. It wasn't that he had any moral objections to Servalan's proposal, Avon told himself, but torture wasn't his preferred pastime. He preferred a cutting insult to actual cutting, unlike the man he was supposed to be impersonating. "You’re assuming Travis doesn't shoot Blake on the Liberator. He is unstable."  
   
"Travis is a soldier," Servalan said. She looked pointedly at Avon. "He will follow orders."  
   
"Are you certain of that?" Avon asked, standing up.  
   
"Completely."  
   
Servalan nodded at the mutoid guards. They moved to Avon's sides, boxing him in and preventing him from leaving. Reluctantly, Avon sat down again.   
   
Servalan sipped her tea nonchalantly. "Have you made your decision yet?"  
   
"It seems it's already been made for me."  
   
"Excellent. I do look forward to our new partnership."  
   
   
   
***I***I***  
   
   
   
The room Cally led Travis to was comfortably sparse. He approved. The conversation the Auronar woman tried to make with him before leaving was less pleasing:  
   
"I sense your mind is troubled, Avon." She said his name with a moment's hesitation, a lack of certainty Travis found disturbing.  
   
"As I've said, I hurt, and I am not at my best," he told her, going into Avon's cabin. The Auronar woman obnoxiously followed him in.  
   
"Is there anything else you need?" she asked.  
   
"No. Only quiet."  
   
"Very well. I will be outside, Avon, if you need me."  
   
He made a non-committal grunt, and activated the door's locking mechanism as soon as she left.  
   
She would be a problem.  
   
Travis was aware the Auronar had a sort of telepathy, however, every military briefing he'd read on the subject indicated they could only read the thoughts of their clone siblings, though some exceptional individuals could catch a glimmers of emotional awareness from non-relatives. Would that be enough to expose him?  
   
Perhaps, depending on what Avon's relationship with the woman was (Travis thought from her behaviour it was not romantic, which was somewhat reassuring. He had no desire to pretend love for one of Avon's crewmates), but Travis didn't plan to give her time to dwell on her suspicion. He wanted to be back in his proper body. Avon had both arms and both eyes, but he was also a short, slightly built, middle-aged technician who had spent most of his life at deskwork. Travis felt pathetically weak inhabiting him.  
   
He started searching Avon's barren quarters for possible weapons. The circuits on top of the work desk were useless. Travis opened the desk drawers. The top drawer contained neatly folded clothes, and a framed photograph of an unknown woman. Useless. The second drawer, however, contained a selection of tools including two laser probes. Travis pocketed them.  
   
He would get a proper weapon later, but for the moment he felt immeasurably better.  
   
His next task was to open communications with the Terox Minor research base.  
   
Travis examined the comm. by the cabin door. It was clearly meant for internal ship communications, but he would be surprised if it couldn't be patched through the main computer for surface communications. He could probably override the system with some of the tools in Avon's desk. It would be a tedious chore, but doable.  
   
A different thought occurred to Travis and he smiled at his own audacity.  
   
He held down the command button until a sonorous voice asked for his identity and instructions.  
   
"Kerr Avon. I wish to open communication with a base on the planet's surface. Co-ordinates: 44-8-96-10."  
   
Travis felt a tingling sensation in his hand where it contacted with the command button. Instinctively, he snatched it away.  
   
"Incorrect," said the computer voice. "You are not Kerr Avon. Brain scan patterns do not match. Confirm identity."  
   
"I am Kerr Avon," Travis said, slowly, choosing his words careful. "I was exposed to an organic neurotoxin while on the surface of Terox Minor and may exhibit unusual brain scans as a result."  
   
The comm. hummed as the computer processed this information. Travis felt the tingling sensation again, except this time it came from the floor, the walls … The room was suddenly suffocatingly warm.  
   
"Physical scan confirmed," the computer said. It sounded uncertain, which Travis dismissed as his own paranoia. Computers didn't feel uncertainty.  
   
"Opening surface communications," the computer said.  
   
"I am in position and awaiting orders," Travis said. There was no reply, but he didn't expect an immediate answer. "Leave this channel open for the time being," Travis instructed the computer. "Do not record or replay any communications sent on it.”  
   
"Confirmed."  
   
"Download Liberator schematics, teleport specs, and weapons capabilities to surface," Travis said. While he waited, he could be productive.  
   
"Information. Your request cannot be completed from this terminal. Surface download privileges are locked to flight deck."  
   
"Unlock them."  
   
"Denied."  
   
"I am confused and require directions to the flight deck."  
   
"Denied. Kerr Avon knows how to reach the flight deck."  
   
Travis growled. When the Federation gutted and reverse-engineered the Liberator, he would ensure a better computer system.  
   
He considered his options. Knowing the ship's layout would help him to convince the crew of his identity and would aid him when it came time for the take-over. If he aroused suspicions while wandering around he could blame his 'confusion' and ask to be led back to his cabin.  
   
However, it would be imprudent to leave a channel to the surface base open while absent. Travis sat on Avon's hard bed and waited. He would make contact with the Supreme Commander. Then he would explore.  
   
He rubbed Avon's left hand as he waited. The blaster wound on the wrist itched under the bandage. The shoulder was sore and tense. Travis was glad it hurt. It was something familiar. He'd lived with the ghost pain of a phantom limb for years. The aches and pains of a real arm were easy to bear in comparison, but did offer a good reminder of why he was here. He would make Blake pay.  
   
The comm. beeped.  
   
"Don't use my name," Travis said before Servalan could speak.  
   
"Are you alone?" she asked. "You are not to raise suspicions until you have carried out your task, _Avon_."  
   
"I don't trust the ship's computer," Travis said.  
   
"A machine? You are paranoid."  
   
Travis ignored her. "Or the Auronar woman. She seems convinced I am either conditioned or brain damaged."  
   
"Then use your initiative to silence her," Servalan said patiently. "Or act brain damaged. It shouldn't be terribly difficult for you. None of them suspect the truth?"  
   
"No," Travis said.  
   
“Very well. You will remember being taken into the underground laboratory. You escaped and made your way to the surface where you fainted. You will tell Blake you saw the scientists he seeks being held underground. You will give him coordinates. He will teleport down and be captured; you will stay on board and retain control of the Liberator."  
   
"Elegant," said Travis.  
   
"All the pieces are falling into place. I assume you will be able to work quickly?"  
   
"I want to be out of this body," Travis said.  
   
"Rest assured, I am keeping your old flesh safe. Or, if you would prefer, I could arrange a new, younger, stronger, more … shall we say _complete_ model. With this technology –"  
   
"I will have my own body back when I am finished," Travis said, cutting off communications. Yes, he would return to his own familiar flesh, and then he would kill Blake with his own hands. And it would be glorious.  
   
   
***I***I***  
   
   
Servalan allowed Avon to return to his cell after their meeting.  
   
In Avon's absence, the top half of Travis's uniform had been deposited on the cell's floor, along with Travis's gun arm. Avon didn't put it on. He did test the mechanism. Deactivated. Servalan didn't trust him that far, apparently.  
   
Avon sat carefully on the cold tile and weighed his situation. He had depressingly few options.  
   
Servalan was playing mind games with him. For what purpose, he wasn't certain. Perhaps it was all for no purpose but her own twisted entertainment, though he doubted it. Much of what she'd told him was true.  
   
If Travis did his job delivering Blake and the Liberator to Servalan, he would also be effectively rendering himself redundant. Avon saw that clearly. He wondered if Travis did.  
   
Avon, with his technical knowledge of the Liberator's systems and teleport, would be a more useful tool in the aftermath, but a difficult one to explain given his history. He was not the sort of person the Federation wanted working on sensitive projects. Travis on the other hand …  
   
Would it be worth it? Avon wondered.  
   
He shifted his position slightly, trying for a more comfortable position on the hard, cold floor.  
   
A life as Servalan's slave.  A life without freedom. A life with no guarantee of safety. A life at the mercy of a maniac's whims…  
   
Not so different from his life on the Liberator then.  
   
Theoretically. If he did it, if he assumed the identity – then what? Servalan's obvious goal was being able to reverse-engineer the Liberator. Once that was achieved, he would be as redundant as the original Travis.  
   
Unless he escaped.  
   
But as a fugitive from the Federation, Travis would be severely disadvantaged. Avon ran his fingers over his new face. Travis had a rather distinctive appearance, after all. That was a problem that could be remedied with sufficient funds, of course, but would he have the opportunity?  
   
Avon thought of Servalan's disgusted fascination with Travis's missing limb, and shuddered. Given the chance, she would probably revel in re-building his body to better suit her personal aesthetics, which was a terrifying thought in its own right. Avon didn't want to think what Servalan's creative fashion sense might look like if let loose on a human canvass.  
   
Another reason to escape. And yet, maddeningly, he still couldn't think of a plan. Stay. Escape. Return to the Liberator somehow…  
   
Servalan had taken that option when she'd switched his body. Avon had seen the way Blake looked at Travis. The man was a murderer. Even knowing that Avon was the one looking out of Travis's eye, Avon doubted Blake would even be able to see anything but the man who had gunned down his friends. Avon knew that shouldn't matter. He shouldn't care how Blake looked at him, but he still had a deep aversion to the idea of presenting himself to Blake in his current form. Perhaps because he knew Blake would _try_ to act normally and accept Avon's new appearance. And he would fail.  
   
Avon could imagine few things more awkward.  
   
The arm sat in front of him. Dark. Aggressive. Tempting.  
   
Watching Blake attempting to adjust to his new appearance wouldn't happen. Travis was onboard the Liberator already. Blake would probably be dead, or strapped to an interrogation chair, in a few short hours. And Avon would also be dead, at least as far as the rest of the world was concerned. He wondered what it would be like, watching his old body being executed.  
   
Avon highly doubted he would enjoy life as Servalan's pet, but he could adapt. A new face and a fresh start _was_ an opportunity. He _could_ turn it to his advantage. And, when the alternative was death-by-mutoid, life as Travis seemed positively attractive in comparison.  
   
Survival was his most important goal, Avon told himself. Everything else. Even money. Even freedom. Even Blake. It all had to come second.  
   
Avon shakily reached over for the arm and strapped it into position against his stump. He flexed the fingers to test the connections and buttoned on the rest of Travis's uniform. The hand worked, but it was clumsy. He won't be able to do the same level of technical work. He would miss his old body.  
   
And, though it went against all of his values of wealth and personal security, and he would never admit it to anyone, he would miss the Liberator as well. It had been an infuriating, uncomfortable place to live, and the company was atrocious, but at least he'd had the satisfaction of being the smartest person on board.  
   
Whatever happened, he would adapt.  
   
And if he had to live with the guilt of Blake's interrogation and execution, he would adapt to that as well.  
   
   
***I***I***  
   
   
After a few hours of fitful sleep, a shower, and a blue-flavoured shake, Blake felt marginally more human and more ready to face Avon.  
   
He still could not accept the idea of a mentally damaged Avon. An Avon who appeared the same on the surface, but wasn't and never would be.  
   
The idea of Avon selling them out was even more unfathomable. Avon _did_ speak of doing it often enough, but Blake trusted Avon's actions more than his words. The man had jumped in front of a plasma rifle for him, for pity's sake.  
   
Though, as he reviewed it in memory, Blake wasn't certain if that lifesaving act had been intentional or not. Perhaps Avon had merely stumbled. That would perhaps make more sense…  
   
But of course, even if he _did_ try and sell them out now, Avon wouldn't be a true traitor. He would have no conscious part in his betrayal, just as Blake hadn't understood what he'd been doing when he'd denounced the Freedom Party and given the Federation the names of all his former friends and colleagues. So many names.  
   
It wasn't enough for them to destroy his life and distort his mind, Blake thought as he made his way to Avon's cabin. No, they had to take Avon's mind as well. Well, Blake would get it back or die trying.  
   
Cally stood outside Avon's door as promised. She held a weapon at ready, which Blake thought was excessive.  
   
"How is he?" Blake asked.  
   
"He sits and talks to himself. I cannot make out the words."  
   
"You can go," Blake told her.  
   
"Be cautious," Cally said.  
   
Blake stared at her. The Auronar woman had been a member of the Liberator's crew for nearly a year, and, despite her alienness, Blake generally understood her. They shared common goals: they both loved freedom and hated the Federation. But sometimes, he found her utterly inscrutable.  
   
"It's only Avon," he said.  
   
"As you say."  
   
Blake over-rode the locking mechanism on the door and let himself in.  
   
The room was cooler. Avon must have adjusted the temperature again. He'd also turned out his desk drawers. There was a photograph of a woman Blake didn't know laying on the floor on top of a pile of discarded clothing and scattered tools.  
   
Avon sat on the edge of his sleeping ledge playing with the fingers of his left hand. He'd taken off his red leather jacket, revealing the black jumper underneath. He looked up sharply as Blake entered.  
   
"You could knock," he said.  
   
"I was afraid you would turn me away."  
   
"Would that stop you?"  
   
"No, but it would make me feel rude," Blake said.  
   
Avon seemed amused by this exchange. Blake found he was smiling as well. The banter was familiar. Blake had keyed himself up for this meeting. Cally's descriptions of Avon muttering and ranting to himself now seemed like blatant over-exaggerations.  
   
"Why would I turn you away?" Avon asked. "Aren't we friends?"  
   
Avon had never asked before. Blake had always taken it for granted he knew the answer, but what if he didn't? Or he had forgotten? And which would be more upsetting? The look on Avon's face was worrying. He was interested in Blake's answer.  
   
"Of course we're friends," Blake said kindly, taking a seat beside Avon on the sleeping ledge. It was still hard and uncomfortable. Blake wondered if he could work his earlier thoughts on changing the bed to help relieve Avon's back pain into the conversation. Or perhaps it would be better if he switched out the bed on his own as a surprise. He wondered if Avon would notice, or thank him if he did.  
   
Avon nodded, but looked away from Blake, focusing on a blank spot on the far wall. "I wasn't certain after you abandoned me."  
   
Blake's hand tightened against the edge of the sleeping ledge. "I didn't –" He stopped. "I'm sorry you feel that way."  
   
Avon shrugged. The bones of his back were visible through the fabric of his jumper.  "I was hurt. Badly. It was your fault."  
   
"Avon, I –" Blake started, but wasn't certain how to finish. An apology wouldn't be enough. He wanted to gather Avon into his arms and make soothing noises until everything was all right, but refrained.  
   
"I suppose I forgive you," Avon said, still facing away. "After all, you're the one who's given my life purpose for so long.”  
   
Blake settled for putting one hand on Avon's shoulder, wincing when the other man stiffened. "The Federation will pay for what they've done to you."  
   
"Do you think so?" Avon asked, and then laughed. "They're stronger than you Blake. They're cleverer than you. The people support _them_ , not you."  
   
"It doesn't matter," Blake said.  
   
"Only because you're obsessed," Avon said.  
   
"I suppose I am. And I don't care. _Someone_ has to stand up to them."  
   
Avon shifted to face Blake again. "I understand obsession."  
   
There was a whirling noise, and Blake realised Avon had an activated laser probe clenched in his right hand. He raised it between them, seemingly fascinated by its glowing light. Blake edged backwards and showed Avon his open palms.  
   
"Avon, what are you doing?"  
   
Avon trembled, but his voice was level and soaked in venom. "I was maimed because of you. Wounded. Left for dead. The Federation saved me, but only because they thought I would be useful to them."  
   
"Yes, Avon, I am _sorry_.  But these are the risks we run. We all knew something like this could happen, and the main thing is you're safe now. If you could just hand me the probe."  
   
Avon blinked, and dropped the probe. It bounced twice on the floor before rolling to rest against Blake's foot. "You should know Dr. Kamsfield and her assistants are being held captive at the base."  
   
Blake sucked in air, calming himself. For a moment, he'd thought Avon was going to attack him.  
   
"We've been wondering if Dr. Kamsfield knew the base was still operational the entire time. If this entire mission hasn't been a trap."  
   
Avon rubbed his injured wrist. "Rest assured, Blake, Dr. Kamsfield was unaware of the Federation's plot. Her radio transmissions to the Liberator were intercepted and it was easy enough to pass on word of her – and by extension your – impending arrival. I don't think they'll keep her alive for long now I've managed to escape. Bait is, after all, useless once the trap has been sprung."  
   
"You think we should rescue them," Blake said.  
   
"I should be able to block the teleport shield on the facility long enough for you to teleport directly into their cellblock."  
   
"You are aware that every moment we remain in orbit around Terox Minor, we are putting ourselves at risk," Blake said.  
   
"So be it."  
   
"That's surprisingly altruistic of you."  
   
"I thought I was a glorious hero of the revolution," Avon said, monotone.  
   
"Is that so?" Blake said, taking it as a joke. Avon tensed and looked uncomfortable. Had he been serious? Blake wasn't certain if he should laugh or be profoundly worried. Before he could decide, Avon relaxed fractionally.  
   
"Before the Federation transferred her, this was Dr. Kamsfield's research station," Avon said. "She understands the local fauna better than any person alive. I know my behaviour has been strange. I have felt strange. If it is a lingering effect from my exposure, then Dr. Kamsfield may be the only person in the galaxy able to restore me."  
   
"Fair enough," Blake said, watching Avon closely. The explanation was reasonable. For once, Blake felt reassured by Avon's 'what's in it for me' attitude. It was familiar. It was Avon. "I'd like to send Vila and Jenna down first to do some reconnaissance. It shouldn't be too hard for them to find and seal the base's entrances. I'd like to make certain the Liberator isn't pursued too quickly."  
   
"How very strategic of you. Yes, do it."  
   
Blake stood up to leave, then paused half-way to the door. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know the details of Avon's captivity. But he also wanted to dismiss the last of his doubts.  
   
"Did your escape seem easy?"  
   
"I was confused and wounded," Avon said drolly. "I barely escaped with my life."  
   
"Cally found a microbomb embedded in your back."  
   
"I was not aware of this," Avon said, clenching his fists.  
   
"A trap within a trap," Blake said. Cally, he decided, was wrong about Avon. The Federation had used him to get the bomb into the Liberator, but that was all. Avon had acted strangely at first, but he'd been injured. He would improve over time. Everything would be fine.  
   
Avon nodded. "As you say."  
   
   
***I***I***  
   
   
"I understand why it was necessary. I do not understand why I was not informed." Travis stood by the communicator. Servalan's explanation that the bomb had been a necessary cover story for "Avon's" easy escape was logical; his being kept in the dark about it was not.  
   
"It was a last minute addition. Everything about this plan had to be brought together very quickly to take advantage of the circumstances, you know that." Servalan 's voice was patient, as if explaining to a very small child. Her condescension was tiresome and unnecessary. He would have willingly allowed for the implant. Ideally, he wanted time to savour Blake's death, but dying together from the microbomb would have been an acceptable alternative.  
   
He changed the subject. "I have information for you. Blake will be sending down two of his people to seal the base entrances."  
   
"I will send a compliment of mutoids to the surface immediately."  
   
"No. It would be better if you left them unharmed. It will make it easier for me to convince the rest of the crew to teleport into the base."  
   
"Clever, very clever."  
   
"When fully informed of the situation, I am able to control it. Soon Blake will be falling into our trap. Soon …" Travis stopped and listened. "Someone is coming. I will report again later."  
   
He managed to sign off moments before Blake once again over-rode the door lock and walked into his cabin. Was there no privacy on this blasted ship?  
   
"Were you speaking with someone?" Blake asked. He was wearing a green surface suit and had a weapon and power pack strapped to his belt.  
   
"Only myself," said Travis, watching for Blake's reaction. He'd been worried about having to carry on a farce of romantic intent with one of Avon's crewmates, but he hadn't expected Blake to be the one showing him that type of attention. It was unnerving. More so because Blake did not appear aware of how his forehead creased in concern when "Avon" acted strangely, or how he mirrored body language when they were together.  
   
It made Blake pathetically easy to manipulate. He was practically tripping over himself trying to be forgiven, his guilt allowing him to accept any out-of-character behaviours. Travis wondered if Avon was as clueless as Blake, or if he too used Blake's emotions against him.  
   
"I talk to myself too sometimes," Blake said, full of fake good cheer and genuine concern. He suddenly clapped his hands together. "Well! Vila and Jenna have finished, so if you feel well enough to come to the teleport room. The rest of us will be going down. I'm already kitted up and ready to go."  
   
"That was fast," Travis said.  
   
"Vila is very good at his job," Blake said, rubbing his hands together, "and with the maps Orac provided, finding the entrances wasn't difficult."  
   
"No, I suppose not. Vila is the thief?" Travis asked. He enjoyed how bothered Blake looked when "Avon" had a memory lapse. It would almost be worthwhile to carry on this farce longer. To watch Blake suffer his righteous guilt. And then, to see the agony on his face when his "friend" betrayed him…  
   
Almost, but no. Travis wanted Blake to know who was responsible for his death. He didn't want to share that privilege. One thing Travis had learned over the years was that there was something surprisingly intimate about killing. You were never closer to another person than when you took their life.  
   
"I was confused for a moment," Travis said, savouring Blake’s pain a moment longer, before telling him: "You go ahead of me. I need to gather my tools first."  
   
"You can find the teleport room on your own?" Blake asked.  
   
"I do live here, don't I?" Travis replied.  
   
"Yes, you do," Blake said. He hesitated, and Travis thought he was going to say something more. Instead he pivoted on his heel and left the room.  
   
Travis waited several minutes after Blake had gone before accessing the comm. again. He briefly gave a status update to Servalan before querying the ship's computer for directions to the teleport room.  
   
"Wisdom must be gathered, not given," the computer intoned, as unhelpful as ever.  
   
"I asked for directions, not platitudes."  
   
"Confirmed."  
   
"I'll find it myself then," Travis said, exiting into the corridor. He expected the Auronar woman to greet him, but she seemed to have given up on guarding his cabin. A good omen, Travis thought. His story was being accepted. Blake's people were pitifully easy to fool, but it left him with the difficulty of finding the teleport room on his own.  
   
Travis wandered through the Liberator. The ship didn't follow any standard plan. Corridors ran at odd angles. There were ramps instead of lifts. There were random dead ends and rooms full of strange materials: one contained racks of dresses which made the Supreme Commander's fashion sense seem pedestrian, another was filled, floor to ceiling, with spiels of copper wire. The engine noise, a constant on any spacecraft, never seemed to keep a constant rhythm. The entire place was alien and nonsensical. Travis didn't like it.  
   
A short series of steps and another door opened out onto what Travis recognised as a flight deck. The room was dominated by a large, geometric computer screen. Travis felt drawn towards it. He should confess who he was to the screen. The computer would understand. It would understand why he had to kill Blake. He should confess …  
   
Travis shuddered, wrenching himself to a stand-still. He stood for several minutes, fighting off the strange desire, and ordering his mind.  
   
Once he had regained control, he considered using the flight deck terminal to send schematics to the surface, as per his original plan, but dismissed the idea. There was something very off about the Liberator and its computer system. Besides which, soon the entire ship would be in Federation hands. Others could deal with the unhelpful AI and the bizarre urges it inspired.  
   
The weapons rack near the front of the flight deck caught Travis's eye. He approached it, still wary of the flashing computer screen. Having a proper weapon would improve his mood considerably. Travis moved to select one, then quickly recoiled as a band of electricity arced off of the rack towards him.  
   
_"Zen does not trust you, why is that?"_  
   
Travis raised his hand to the side of his head. Was he hearing voices now? Perhaps the transfer procedure had damaged him somehow.  
   
"What are you doing here, Avon?" Cally stood in flight deck's doorway. Not madness then, only the damn Auronar woman.  
   
"I became confused again," Travis said.  
   
"As long as it is only your mind which is confused, and not your loyalties."  
   
"Will you aid me in reaching the teleport room?" Travis asked. "I need to disable the base's force field."  
   
"No need. Orac was able to jam the signal. Blake was very impatient to leave, and has gone down to the surface already. He is worried about you, Avon. So am I."  
   
"Who is left on the ship?" Travis asked.  
   
"Only you and I are left."  
   
"The teleport is unattended?" Travis asked, edging closer to Cally.  
   
"I left only briefly, to find you."  
   
"Unwise." Travis jumped at her. The Auronar was fast and strong, a trained fighter, but so was Travis. She feinted. He dodged. She attempted to run past him to the weapons rack, but Travis ducked under her feet and grabbed her in an arm lock. Cally might still have overthrown him, but Travis brought the second of the laser probes he'd stolen from Avon's cabin close against her throat, backing her against a wall.  
   
"One move," he cautioned. "Just one move."  
   
"You are _not_ Avon," she spat.  
   
"Very perceptive. But then, you suspected from the beginning. One of the many projects Dr. Kamsfield worked on involved mind-body transfers."  
   
"You wear his body like a suit of meat."  
   
"A very apt description."  
   
"Is Avon still alive?" Cally asked.  
   
Travis tightened his grip until he was rewarded by a small grunt of pain. He whispered in Cally's ear: "I really have no idea."  
   
An instant later he was doubled over in pain from the elbow Cally had managed to wedge into his groin. His raised his arm to fire at her before she could run out of the room, then cursed as he remembered Avon's body didn't have any built-in weapons.  
   
He followed the sound of her footsteps down the corridor, emerging in a room with a large control panel, a shelf of bracelets, and a strangely shaped wall recession. The Auronar woman was hunched over the control panel shouting:  
   
"Blake, come in! Avon is –"  
   
Travis slammed her head down on the console, silencing her. Then he commed down to the surface.  
   
"This is Field Commander Travis reporting. I have taken command of the Liberator. I have taken one of its crew prisoner. I am awaiting further instruction."  
   
"How about surrender?" Blake asked, entering the room, weapon trained on Travis's head.  Jenna, Gan, and Vila entered behind him. Instead of teleporting down to the surface, they must have stayed on board to see what "Avon" would do when left unattended. Travis was almost impressed.  
   
"Using Zen to communicate with the base was stupid," Jenna said. "Deleting the conversations but not the logs of their existence was sloppy."  
   
"Avon would have done it better," Vila said.  
   
Travis ignored them, focusing on Blake and the way his weapon kept dipping away from the lethal shot. It was good to know Blake was still a coward, incapable of doing the right thing. Travis would have pulled the trigger the moment he'd discovered the logs.  
   
Which _had_ been sloppy. Travis was annoyed at himself, and the Liberator's computer. He'd known it was out to get him.  
   
"You won't shoot me," Travis said. "You want this body. I've seen it in your eyes."  
   
"I want Avon. I don't care what body he's in," Blake said. He pressed the cool bulb tip of his weapon against Travis's neck and walked him over to the bracelet rack. Selecting several. He put one on himself, tossed another to Jenna, and forced Travis to put on another, before stashing the remainder in his pockets.  
   
At the teleport console, Cally was regaining consciousness. She glared at Travis. Vila leaned over her, ready to work the controls.  
   
"Gan, activate Orac," Blake said. The big man inserted the computer's key.  
   
"Why are you disturbing me?" it asked.  
   
"Predict where in the base Avon is being held and enter coordinates," Blake said.  
   
"If you insist," Orac said.  
   
Blake marched Travis into the teleport between himself and Jenna. The sensation of dissolution was disturbing. Travis felt his skin crawling. A light flashed. There was a loud zinging sound. And then he was falling.  
   
   
***I***I***  
   
   
The sound of the teleport was unmistakable. Avon stood in his cell. The door was open. He wasn't a prisoner according to Servalan. Her ability to tell blatant lies with a straight face was nearly impressive.  
   
Three figures appeared in the cellblock hallway: Blake, Jenna, and Travis in Avon's body. Avon stared at him for a moment. It wasn't every day you saw your skin being worn by another. He was shorter than he realised. Avon generally thought of himself as being of equal height with Blake, but he wasn't. He was only fractionally taller than Jenna. His face was pale. The mouth was twisted in a sneer.  
   
Blake had a weapon ready. So did Jenna. Avon felt his chest compress with fear, and something else – the brutal unfairness of the situation. His rescue party had come, and he looked like Travis. Blake had murder in his eyes. He took a step towards Avon. Avon took a step back.  
   
"Blake…" He wondered if Servalan was watching. If she'd be pleased. Avon raised his gun arm. Servalan had deactivated it, of course, but  Avon was a brilliant technician and there hadn't been anything else in the cell to occupy his time. He hadn't tested the jury-rigged firing mechanism yet, and wasn't certain if it would work correctly or blow up in his face.  
   
"Blake…" He had two choices: shoot Travis, destroying his original body, and giving Blake and Jenna a chance to escape – and probably being swiftly killed by Blake and Jenna as retribution. Or shooting Blake and affirming his alliance with Servalan and his new identity. But that would require shooting Blake…  
   
Blake took another step, closing the distance.  
   
Avon pointed his arm away from Blake, towards Travis.  
   
"Get away from him. I know you have no reason to believe me, but –"  
   
Blake holstered his weapon. "Avon, we know."  
   
Avon reassessed the situation. Jenna had her weapon drawn, but it was trained on Travis. Travis was unarmed and Avon recognized the blank expression on his face as fury. The corner of Avon's mouth twitched upward. "Then I am glad that, just this once, I appear to have underestimated your intelligence."  
   
"Yes, well …" Blake said, shifting his eyes downwards. "Zen helped."  
   
"Do you have a spare bracelet?" Avon asked. "I'm looking forward to returning to the Liberator."  
   
He was. He wasn't. Blake was already having trouble with Avon's new appearance. Avon tried to feel unaffected. He was used to Blake looking at him with fondness or vague irritation, not the mix of pity and disgust and hidden fear he was showing now.  
   
"You _have_ been having a bad time," Jenna quipped.  
   
"Well, I can think of better ways to spend my time," Avon said, accepting a bracelet from Blake.  
   
"We aren't leaving yet. Not before you're back in your proper body."  
   
Avon felt a surge of something like hope. He swiftly crushed it. "This base is swarming with mutoids, and your teleport must have set off dozens of alarms."  
   
"We'll be quick," said Blake.  
   
"Survival takes precedence over aesthetics," said Avon, noting how Blake refused to make eye contact. He focused on the deformities instead, just as Servalan had done.  
   
"Right," Blake said, looking away, "You're right, of course. Appearances aren't important. But –  
Don't you feel violated?"  
   
Of course I do, Avon thought. "Don't make this about what you want Blake. I want to survive. Whether I do that in my own body or Travis's has no relevance to me."  
   
"That is your choice," said Blake. His disappointment was palatable. "However, Orac's information indicated Dr. Kamsfield is being held in her former laboratory. She may be able to perform the swap before we leave. If you want her to."  
   
Avon didn't reply. The wisest course of action hadn't changed. They should abandon Dr. Kamsfield and Avon's chances of returning to his old body. They should go back to the Liberator and leave, but Blake wouldn't. Avon knew he should object anyways, but he didn't. Leaving as Travis wouldn't be an escape for him. It would only a prelude to another kind of hell; one where Blake acted polite and unaffected until Avon finally went mad or left.  
   
"Do we have time?" Jenna asked. "I don't like our chances if we're ambushed in these tunnels."  
   
"We'll make time," Blake said. "Besides, which, we can't leave without Dr. Kamsfield and her people."   
   
They made their way out of the cellblock towards the research section of the base, keeping Travis under tight watch. The smell of mutoids hung thick in the air as they proceeded. Vila passed on directions from Orac as they went.  
   
"Right at the next junction. Don't look the other way unless you want to see something awful," he said as they passed a particularly foul smelling hallway. It reminded Avon of the residential section in the London dome where he'd grown up: a long, tiled corridor with lots of locked doors. Vila didn't have to say what was been being done behind those doors. The stench of mutoid blood-serum and antiseptic was enough.  
   
"Do you think we could free any of the volunteers?" Blake asked, slowing his pace.  
   
"Only if you're feeling especially suicidal," Avon said, trying to halt _that_ particular moronic notion before it could take root.  
   
Mutoid conversion was sometimes offered as an alternative to exile or execution when the Federation was running low on soldiers, but for the most part it was reserved for brain-washed, overly patriotic youth under the mistaken belief that having their minds wiped and their digestive tracks ripped out was somehow noble and wonderful. They thought they were becoming heroes, and would fight anyone who tried to tell them otherwise.  
   
"They can't fully comprehend what is going to be done to them," Blake said.  
   
True, Avon thought. An individual would have to be either supremely stupid or supremely uninformed to willingly sign up for mutoid conversion. The fact that the Federation never seemed to have any lack of willing volunteers did not say much about the overall intelligence of humanity. However, unlike Blake, Avon did view ignorance as crime.  
   
"They are the reason you will never win," Travis said. "They are willing to give up everything to defend the Federation. They are strong, brave, trustworthy, dedicated."  
   
"Psychotic," said Avon. "I understand why you get along."  
   
"The lab should be three hundred metres ahead and to your right," Vila said.  
   
The group slowed as they approached the bend. Avon pressed the crystal of his gun arm against Travis's neck. A neat irony, he thought, holding Travis hostage with his own weapon.  
   
There were two mutoids standing guard outside the laboratory. The first they'd seen. Avon was on guard. Servalan would be aware of Blake’s presence here. The teleport alone must have tripped any number of sensors. Avon estimated there were at least sixty mutoids in various stages of conversion throughout the base. He found their current absence worrying.  
   
If I were Servalan, Avon thought, and I knew Blake was here, what would I do?  
   
Let us walk into another trap, was the only answer.  
   
"Careful," Avon said as they peeked around the corner at the guards. With their enhanced senses, the mutoids had to be aware of their presence. Why weren't they reacting?  
   
"Aren't I always?" Blake said.  
   
"Do I need to dignify that with an answer?" Avon asked.  
   
Travis was smirking. Avon wondered how many people in his history had been in this odd and unenviable position of wanting to punch the grin off their own face. He refrained, settling instead for pushing the crystal of his gun arm harder into the soft skin under Travis's chin.  
   
"I'll take the one on the right," Jenna said. She and Blake stormed around the bend, weapons raised and ready. The mutoids dodged the first round of fire with inhuman ease, running the short distance towards Blake and Jenna. Jenna managed to get in a head shot and her mutoid fell. Blake's, however, crashed into Blake at a run, toppling him over.  It wrapped its hands around his neck and bared its teeth. Jenna dismissed it with another head shot before it could start chewing on Blake's face.  
   
"Still feeling sympathetic?" Avon asked. He left the guarding of Travis to Jenna and went to help Blake up. Blake stared at the offered hand for a fraction too long before accepting it.  
   
"Angry," said Blake. He peered down at the fallen mutoid. "Another life stolen by the Federation."  
   
Avon noted how Blake unconsciously wiped his hand on the front of his trousers, as if touching Avon had somehow sullied him. Avon told himself it didn't matter, but he hoped more fervently than ever that there would be time to switch back into his former body. Returning to the Liberator as Travis would be too complicated.  
   
The group opened the door to the lab. It was unlocked, which bothered Avon. The room felt familiar. The gurney parked absently near the door. The huge machine dominating the floor: two body-sized metal capsules connected to a central column by a series of flesh-coloured hoses and wires. Large gas bladders made out of black pseudo leather were strapped to either side. Avon had a brief flashback of being strapped into one of the coffin-like metal capsules, choking as gas was pumped into the confined space.  
   
One corner of the room had been converted into a rough living area. There were three cots and a rickety table set up. The room smelled like mutoids, tree gas, and unwashed bodies.  
   
A tall woman with tightly curled red hair; a dark-haired man with a dopey face; and a petite, but wiry, older woman, with close-cropped grey hair emerged from behind the body swap machine. They wore grease-smeared lab coats and looked like they hadn't bathed in days.  
   
"He's not who he seems," the dark-haired man said, pointing at Travis, and then waving at the machine. "This device was created for the transfer of consciousness, and he –"  
   
"We know, and we have the situation well under control," Blake said. He turned towards the older woman. "Dr. Kamsfield, I'm sorry we didn't meet in better circumstances. Before we bring you back to our ship, I have a favour to ask of you. The transfer process – is it reversible?"  
   
"Yes, of course," said the older woman, "but I am not Dr. Kamsfield. I'm Martrist, chief assistant." She indicated towards the red-haired woman, "That is Kel, my half-brother."  
   
"I am Dr. Kamsfield," said the dark-haired man. "We've had no one but ourselves to experiment on these past few days, and Supreme Commander Servalan told us we would be used as mutoid fodder if we didn't work." She wrung her hands together. "I intended this as a medical device to help save lives, you understand? The Federation said they weren't interested. I thought they'd mothballed this base. The planet was judged too hostile and too expensive for continued inhabitation. If I'd known the base was still in service I would have picked a different planet for our rendezvous –"  
   
"I understand," Blake said.  
   
"I am so, so sorry," Dr. Kamsfield continued. "I only ever wanted to help people."  
   
"Apologies are useless," Avon said. "We need to leave soon, and I would prefer to do so in my own body."  
   
"Of course," Dr. Kamsfield said, nodding. "You'll have to remove your prosthetics and any metalled clothing, unless you want them to fuse to your skin during the process."  
   
Martrist and Kel approached him, apparently with the intent of aiding him in stripping off his clothes.  
   
"I'll do it myself," Avon said. He unbuttoned Travis's uniform and awkwardly unattached the prosthetic arm. He felt considerably lighter without it, and considerable more helpless as well. Avon turned his back to Blake before removing the eyepatch.  
   
When he turned around again, he saw that Travis was in the process of removing his boots. He’d already removed his jacket and jumper. He was crouched down, the scars from the visa deal which criss-crossed Avon's original torso were plainly visible, as were the individual knobs of his spine. Blake stood in front of him and his posture was oddly protective, as if he'd forgotten the man he was guarding wasn't Avon and didn't require Blake to protect his modesty.  
   
Then an alarm sounded. A mutoid appeared in the doorway. Jenna shot it, but another followed close behind.  
   
"Time to leave," Avon said. He tried to work out how to activate the comm. switch on his teleport bracelet without a second hand to depress the switch. He decided on using his chin. "Vila, teleport."  
   
"No!" Blake shouted. "I'm not leaving with you like this."  
   
"It's just a body, Blake," Avon snarled. "It's not important."  
   
"It is to me!"  
   
"What was that?" Vila asked.  
   
"No teleport!" Blake shouted, as Avon glared at him.  
   
Travis choose that moment to make his move, tackling Blake from behind. Avon knew his original body wasn't a match for Blake in a physical fight, but Travis had surprise on his side and a goal beyond simple subduing Blake. Travis scrambled past Blake towards Avon. Jenna  was too busy with the stream of mutoids at the door to help. Avon saw Travis's object and dived towards the gun arm, but he misjudged how to land with one hand and rolled awkwardly. Travis rose up triumphantly, hoisting the gun arm with both hands and aiming the firing crystal at Blake's head.  
   
More mutoids rushed in, faster than Jenna could take them down. They were surrounded. Jenna was pulled to the floor. Avon saw the scientists huddling into a corner.  
   
Servalan walked into the room, stepping daintily over the mutoid corpses, her ball gown swishing around her heels.  
   
"Look at this mess," she said, chidingly. "Travis, Avon, I really expected better from both of you, especially you, Travis."  
   
"I have Blake," he said.  
   
Servalan tutted. "Yes, you do. You were _supposed_ to also have the Liberator."  
   
She sighed and made her way to Avon. He was still sprawled on the floor, several mutoids standing over him. Servalan crouched down to his level, and put a hand on his exposed back. It was cold. Avon tensed at the touch.  
   
"Oh Avon, I offered you a better life, and _this_ is what you choose? How very unfortunate."  
   
She straightened up. "I suppose something can be salvaged from the situation. As you say, Travis, you have Blake."  
   
"Permission to terminate him?" Travis asked. "He will only be trouble as a prisoner."  
   
"Granted," Servalan said. "I want this whole sordid affair finished."  
   
"I wanted to kill you with my own hand, and so I shall," Travis said, using his hands – Avon's old hands – to manually set the gun arm's firing crystal. There was an explosion. Avon's ears rang and the room was filled with purple smoke from the machine.  
   
Apparently my repair job left something to be desired, Avon thought, as he stole forward through the chaos towards Blake. He could see shapes through the haze. Mutoids were firing randomly. Servalan was running towards the exit, sliding through the door second before it slammed shut.  
   
Was Blake still alive? Avon wondered. His question was answered a moment later as he stumbled over two shapes wrestling on the floor: Blake and Travis in Avon's body. The discharge from the gun arm must have arced upwards, knocking them both over, but leaving them relatively unharmed. The real damage was to Dr. Kamsfield's bodyswap machine. One of the leather bladders meant for storing the tree gas was on fire. Smoke and gas poured out of it. The air was purple and the alarm was still blaring. Water began gushing out of overhead sprinklers, adding to the madness but doing little to combat the fire or the gas.  
   
Avon's throat burned. He saw Jenna fighting her way towards him. She'd managed to get her weapon back, somehow. Martrist and Kel went down under mutoid fire. Avon's eyes watered. He was having trouble keeping his balance. If they didn't leave soon they would be dead.  
   
Blake and Travis rolled towards Avon. Avon grabbed at Travis with his one arm. Travis ignored him, pulling away from Blake and crawling determinedly towards a pile of dead mutoids. Avon tried to rush Travis before he could meet his goal, but skidded on the gore-slick floor. Travis rooted through the pile of corpses, searching for a usable weapon.  
   
Chest heaving, Avon struggled back to his feet.  
   
"You will never win, Blake," Travis said, standing on the backs of the dead mutoids and aiming his new blaster.  
   
Avon jumped at Travis. The blast hit him in the stomach, knocking him backwards.  
   
_You idiot,_ Avon thought as he lay on the ground, bleeding and struggling to breath, what the hell was that supposed to accomplish?  
   
Travis was already loading up to fire again. Blake was unarmed and rushing forwards. Towards Travis, Avon thought, which made no sense. What the hell was Blake doing?  
   
"Go away!" Avon wanted to scream, but his lips were numb, and the room was fading. Dimly, he was aware he was probably dying, and also, that death didn't bother him as much as Blake's stupidity. "Teleport!" Avon tried to say. "Leave!"  
   
Blake continued forward, not to Travis, but to Avon's side. He dropped to his knees, cradling Avon towards him. Travis was laughing like the madman he was.  
   
This is how it ends, Avon thought.  
   
Then there was a crash and Travis was down on the ground, pinned under the over turned gurney. Dr. Kamsfield stood behind him, breathing hard. Jenna fired a few more times, then stopped. The mutoids were all dead. Aside from the crackling fire and the hissing gas, the room was oddly quiet. Blake pressed his hands against the wound in Avon's gut. There was no hesitation in his touch now.  
   
Suddenly Jenna was at Avon's side as well. "How is he. Can he survive teleport?"  
   
Blake didn't respond to her. "Can we still do the transfer?" he asked Dr. Kamsfield.  
   
Dr. Kamsfield shook her head. "The fire is burning off some of the more hazardous elements of the gas, but in a few minutes that won't be enough. I'm already feeling the effects."  
   
"But will the machine still work?" Blake asked.  
   
Dr. Kamsfield coughed, sputtering on the toxic smoke. "I don't know. It would need repairs. There isn't time."  
   
"Stay with me, Avon," Blake said. Avon caught the urgency in his voice, but was finding it harder and harder to focus. Blake moved one of his hands away from the wound to grip Avon's one hand. Avon tried to grip back. Doing so seemed important, but he couldn't quite manage.  
   
The next moment, Avon felt himself being hefted into the air. Blake was lifting him and staggering towards the machine.  
   
"Show me how to work it," Blake rasped. "Then you and Jenna can return to the Liberator. I'll stay behind."  
   
"You'll die," Dr. Kamsfield said.  
   
"I'm not leaving him."  
   
"This lever opens the transfer pod," said Dr. Kamsfield. The capsule popped open and Blake man-handled Avon into it.  
   
Dr. Kamsfield kept rasping out instructions and helping Blake to attach the various wires and tubes. "Then this switch, and this monitors the gas read outs, but with this amount of damage I don't know –"  
   
Avon didn't hear anymore. The capsule lid slid shut and the world went dark.  
   
   
***I***I***  
   
   
"How do we know if it's really Avon?" Vila asked, hovering over the bed.  
   
"The brain scans read as normal," Cally said.  
   
"Yes, but how do we know for certain?"  
   
Avon groaned and dared to open his eyes.  
   
"You don't," Avon said, "but the list of things Vila knows is limited, so I wouldn't put much stock in it."  
   
"It's Avon," said Vila.  
   
Avon blinked several times. Blinked with both eyes, he realised. He had full stereoscopic vision again. The reappearance of depth perception was giving him a headache. He wondered how long the readjustment period would last. Experimentally, he wiggled the fingers on his left hand, then lifted into view. It was his hand. He touched his jaw, his nose, his mouth: _his face_. He was, literally, himself again.  
   
But at what cost?  
   
"Blake?" Avon asked, remembering the gas filled chamber, and Dr. Kamsfield's warning.  
   
"I'm here, Avon." Blake shambled to the bedside. He was wearing a white gown and his voice was strained, but he was alive.  
   
"How?" Avon asked, feeling the tension drain from his limbs.  
   
"Dr. Kamsfield was adamant no one else who die because of her work. She agreed to stay behind and oversee the transference on the condition that I left and lived. You were teleported up twenty minutes later."  
   
"So in the end, we saved none of them," Avon said.  
   
"No." Blake's shoulders slumped. He turned to Cally and Vila. "A moment alone?"  
   
They both retreated.  
   
"Avon…" Blake started. It sounded like the beginning of an apology that Avon didn't want to hear. He wanted to tell Blake it didn't matter. Avon didn't blame him. He was grateful to Blake for saving him.  
   
Instead he said, "I'm tired," and rolled onto his side, away from Blake.  
   
"Of course," said Blake, sounding uncertain. Avon heard him shuffling away. The unspoken guilt was palatable and annoying.  
   
"Thank you," Avon said quietly, doing his best to keep any emotion out of his voice, "for not trusting me when I was Travis."  
   
Blake stopped. Avon could hear him fidgeting, then sighing deeply.  
   
"I did," Blake said. "Even when your – his – behaviour was strange. I didn’t … I felt guilty, about leaving you down there, but more than that, I didn't want to accept that you were different, because of me, because of my actions … but at the same time, I wanted you to know that, if you were damaged that way, I would still accept you. Even if you weren't you anymore. I had to –"  
   
Avon snorted. “You’re an idiot."  
   
"Perhaps."  
   
Avon glanced over at him. Blake stood a few feet from the medical bay's exit. He was chewing his knuckle thoughtfully.  
   
"Cally was the one who checked Zen's logs," he continued. "We didn't know it was Travis then. They thought _you_ had betrayed us, but I couldn't believe it. I kept coming up with alternatives. I'm sorry, Avon."  
   
"For what?"  
   
"For not being able to tell you apart from that maniac!" Blake shouted.  
   
"Well, you never have been overly perceptive," Avon said. "Otherwise I would be insulted."  
   
"You aren't angry?" Blake asked.  
   
"I'm _tired_ ," Avon said.  
   
"I'll go then."  
   
"Good."  
   
There was so much more Avon wanted to say. Blake's garbled confession made very little sense to him, but on another level, he understood it entirely and it made a buried part of his soul ache. The feeling Blake had tried so clumsily to describe – Avon had felt it before. He wanted to respond. He wanted to be held. He was certain, if he asked, Blake would come over and stand by his bedside and say what it was he really meant to say, which Avon thought might include the word love, in some context or form.  
   
He thought he might like that.  
   
But he _was_ tired, and hurting, and the pain from what had happened with Anna was still as close as the scars wrapping across this body's chest. Love never ended well. Avon wouldn't fall into its trap again.  
   
"Advice for your future, if you're to have one," Avon called after Blake before he stepped out the door. "Trust is for fools."  
   
He slumped back against the bed to rest, thinking wearily:  
   
_And I might be one._  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 


End file.
